


Les Amours De Marius

by Elenchus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Comedy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, pure silliness in fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9972998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenchus/pseuds/Elenchus
Summary: OR The Fakest Fake Dating AU: a farce in four acts.All Marius wants is for his grandfather to give him permission to marry the girl he loves. He’s not quite sure how this led to him pretending to be engaged to two of the most disreputable of his disreputable friend’s disreputable friends, but here they are, and Marius is nothing if not committed in the service of love.A (loosely) canon era fake dating AU, staring Marius Pontmercy, Bahorel, and Grantaire.





	1. La Galatea

Marius glared up at his grandfather’s house. The house did not glare back, but not, Marius suspected, from lack of trying. He walked on past, gloomily surveying the street around him.

The morning was sunny and beautiful and horribly terrible. A pair of birds flew by, singing to each other. Marius contemplated throwing a rock at them. Life was terrible and cruel.

“Life is terrible and cruel,” he announced to no one in particular. The birds continued to sing, rudely ignoring his pronouncement. They were probably laughing at him. Did birds laugh?

A woman walking by took one look at him and pulled her child closer to her. Marius supposed he must look out of place on this street with his poor, worn clothes. His grandfather would never listen to him. No one would. The passersby were probably laughing at him for daring to come to this part of town.

That man over there was _definitely_ laughing at him.

Marius prepared a haughty glance – dignified yet cutting – before his brain caught up with him and identified the man.

“Ho there, Pontmercy!” Bahorel called out. He had an arm around the nearly prone figure of Grantaire, who was leaning against him with all the attention and vigor of a corpse. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” said Marius, a little peevishly.

“You might, you might.” Grantaire had begun to slump, and Bahorel hitched him back up onto his shoulders. Grantaire grunted, confirming for Marius that he was still among the living. “We spent the night acquainting ourselves with Paris. I couldn’t say where we ended up; I lost track after the sixth establishment asked us to take our business elsewhere.” Grantaire muttered something that sounded unflattering.

“Oh,” said Marius. “Well, I’m here to see my grandfather. He lives here, you see.” He looked at the ground and sighed.

Bahorel looked at him sympathetically. “So that’s the pale mien of filial duty, eh? Is the _pater familias_ a terror?”

“ _Dreadful_ ,” said Marius with great feeling. “I mean, that is to say, he is my grandfather and of course I owe him my respect. But he insulted my father! And besides, he sends me money every month, even though I’ve made it clear I want nothing from him.”

“Sounds ideal to me,” slurred Grantaire from his place on Bahorel’s shoulder. “I frequently insult my father, and someone ought to give me money too. What do you do with it?”

“Send it back of course!”

Grantaire grunted again, this time with a clear note of disapproval. “What does he need it for? You should give it to the poor of the world, who have use for it. Or to me. Especially to me.”

“He lost badly at the tables last night,” Bahorel informed Marius. Grantaire made a new noise of disdain. “So, you’re not here to ask for money, then. In my experience that accounts for the great majority of unpleasant family visits.”

“No,” said Marius. He sighed heavily. “I’m going to ask for his permission to get married.”

“My congratulations!” boomed Bahorel. He nudged Grantaire.

“’gratulations.”

Marius continued on, warming to his tragedy now that he had an audience. “You can save them. He will say no – he won’t think she’s good enough to be his granddaughter. Oh, she’s worth ten of him! But he won’t be able to see past her humble status and lack of wealth. I won’t be allowed to marry her, and we’ll have to wait for _years_ , and what if she grows tired of waiting? Or her father finds out and has me arrested? Or she leaves Paris? I love her and I cannot live without her! I will lose her, and I will die!”

“Well!” said Bahorel.

“Mmph.” said Grantaire.

The three of them stood and mulled this over for a moment.

“You know,” said Bahorel, I read a book once –“

“’gratulations.”

“Shut up, Capital R. I read a book once where the heroine wished to marry a man her guardian disapproved of. In consequence she fell in with a rouge, and ended badly. By the end, her guardian was lamenting the fact that he hadn’t let her marry the first fellow when he had the chance.”

“Co- my love would never do such a thing!” Marius protested.

“It wasn’t her I had in mind,” said Bahorel.

Grantaire stretched out an arm to pat Marius’ shoulder. He missed, and hit his stomach instead. “Get a mistress.” Marius opened his mouth to object but Grantaire overrode him. “Or invent one. Say you want to marry her. The worse, the better.” He snickered slightly.

“Your fiancée will benefit by the comparison,” said Bahorel, “and your grandfather’s objections will melt away when she appears against such alternatives. Respectability is a fickle, false thing – it’s all a matter of perspective.”

Marius considered this. It felt dangerously close to infidelity, and wasn’t it a sin to lie to one’s aged relatives? Or course, it would all be for Cosette, really, and he wouldn’t have to lie for long…

“She’ll have to be a peasant,” said Bahorel. “Certainly.”

“And a drunk!” added Grantaire.

“A working girl.”

“After your money!”

“A foot soldier in the Romantic Army!”

“A lazy daydreamer!”

“Her name – Brumaire!”

“La Galatea!”

Bahorel and Grantaire amused themselves for several minutes suggesting qualities for Marius’ imaginary lady love. They might have continued in this vein much longer had not M. Gillenormand himself finally returned home and spotted them.

“Marius!” he cried out, astonished. “Why you – you wretch, what are you doing here? Are you well? Have you come back to me? Ah, my own grandson! But no, you made it clear that our ways were better parted and that there is nothing here for you!”

Marius straightened, ignoring the outburst. “There is a matter I must discuss with you, Monsieur. I –” Faced with his grandfather, everything he had planned to say took this moment to flee from his mind. Only one clear thought remained. “I – I am going to be married!”

“What!” said Monsieur Gillenormand. “What!” And again: “What!” He appeared on the verge of uttering the word a fourth time before catching himself and amending it: “To whom?!”

The question caught Marius off-guard. It was, on reflection, a perfectly natural inquiry. To hesitate now would be to give up before he had started. The situation required decisive action. He had to come up with someone, anyone! Oh, if only he knew more women! Even just a name! A woman on the street to point to!

In a panic, he cast out an arm dramatically towards Bahorel and Grantaire. “To him!”

Bahorel and Grantaire blinked at him in unison. His grandfather opened his mouth. Then he shut it. He tried again with similar results. On his third sally he managed to squeak out, “Which one?”

“Er,” said Marius, who had not thought this far ahead. “Both of them? No, one of them. Definitely. I’m going to marry one of them and I’m in love with that one and you can’t stop me!”

Bahorel looked unaccountably delighted. “That’s right! We’re both courting him. Rivals in love! Isn’t that so, my friend?”

Grantaire nodded thoughtfully, then threw up in front of Bahorel’s shoes. Gillenormand took a few steps back.

“By the by, Citizen,” said Bahorel, beaming, “what do you think of modern poetry? I have here a little work of Lamartine, but I’ve been considering composing my own lately. Would you like to hear it?”

Monsieur Gillenormand began to emit a horrified sound, somewhere between a teakettle and an enraged bull. Marius decided it was time to make his retreat, before his grandfather started asking more difficult questions, such as “When?” or “How?” or “Why?”

“Um, that’s all I had to say. Good day to you, grandfather.” He pulled Bahorel and Grantaire away with him, as fast as he could go while still keeping a semblance of dignity.

“I’ll be back to lend you my poetry!” Bahorel called back towards Monsieur Gillenormand. To Marius, in a quieter voice: “I hope he approves of some of it; the piece needs trimming down.”

“D’you think he’ll offer us money to go away?” asked Grantaire hopefully. “In books, they always offer the mistress money to go away.”

Marius groaned.


	2. In Loco Remoto

After several days of anxious contemplation, Marius was no closer to having a solution to his problems. Even the ever-faithful expedient of laying his head on his desk for several hours and crying produced no results.

The thought of going out in public where people might see him was intolerable. Clearly, the only thing to do was to convert his apartment into a hermitage and never speak to anyone again. He would correspond with Cosette by carefully coded letters, telling of his love and his wretchedness until he died of heartbreak and perhaps embarrassment. It would be very tragic; alas, no one would ever know or care besides his dear Cosette, if she even still loved him at all after she heard of his failure. He would be solitary, alone, _solus cum solo_ –

“Hullo Marius!” Courfeyrac’s voice called in from the hallway, disturbing Marius’ thoughts. “You’ve got a letter here!”

 

* * *

 

“Bahorel! Bahorel I need you!” Marius cried, pushing his was into the Corinthe.

Bahorel waved lazily from his chair in the corner, feet up on the table. “Ah, if only I had a sous for every time I’ve heard that.”

“You’d have one sous,” said Feuilly, sitting next to him. He tossed a card out onto the table. “Your turn.”

Bahorel laughed. “And wouldn’t that be a fine thing!”

Marius straightened and coughed indignantly. “Excuse me! Bahorel, I have an emergency!” He pulled the letter out of his coat and brandished it in front of him. He stood there dramatically for a moment waiting for someone to ask him what the emergency was. No one did.

“I suspect,” said Bahorel after a few moments, “that you are referring to the contents of that bit of paper. Alas, even I haven’t been educated enough to make out letters through an envelope. Law school has failed me, as it fails us all.”

“I, well, yes.” said Marius. He refused to give up his dramatic stance. Having struck it in the first place, he felt he was stuck. He tried to fumble the envelope open with the same hand that was holding it and had the letter half out before managing to drop the whole thing.

“Aurgh,” said the floor. Marius jumped and narrowly missed landing on Grantaire’s arm. The man was stretched out on the floor in front of him with Marius’ letter on his face. Grantaire picked the missive up and quickly scanned it. “Your grandfather wants to see you? What of it?”

“He’s going to ask me questions!” said Marius.

“I imagine so,” said Grantaire. “My relatives usually do. I broke them of the habit by answering.”

“Monsieur my friend Grantaire has a point,” said Bahorel, before Marius could respond. “Take the chance to convince your grandfather of what bad company you’re keeping and how low you’ve fallen in love. It shouldn’t take much more prodding.”

“But that’s just it!” Marius burst out. “I can’t lie to my grandfather!” It would be wrong, he had decided, and also it seemed from his previous encounter that he wasn’t very good at it.

“Well then,” said Bahorel, who had yet to budge even slightly from the posture he has been in when Marius had entered the room. “Tell him the truth. What do you need me for?”

“Don’t you see?” said Marius. “ _You_ can lie to my grandfather. He isn’t _your_ grandfather, after all. I don’t think it’s a sin to lie someone else’s aged relatives,” he added after a moment’s thought.

“A true philosopher!” came Grantaire’s voice from near Marius’ shoe. “It’s well that I’m pretending to marry you for your money, not your morals.”

Marius kicked him, but only very slightly. Grantaire _had_ helped him after all he supposed.

“I can’t face my grandfather alone,” he told Bahorel. “What if he offers me more money? Oh, you don’t know what a torment it is!”

Bahorel nodded solemnly and put a comforting arm on Marius’ shoulder. With his free hand he threw another card towards Feuilly without looking. “Of course we’ll help.” Marius felt slightly reassured until Bahorel grinned. “Just let me stop by my apartments to collect some pamphlets first.”

 

* * *

 

They made their way to Gillenormand’s house without much trouble – Marius only had to duck behind bushes twice to avoid people whose faces looked familiar but whose names he’d forgotten.

(“Careful,” he’d whispered to Bahorel and Grantaire; “if they see me they might _greet me_ _by name_ and then I’d have to just say ‘hello’ back and they’d _know_.”)

His grandfather’s house itself represented a minor problem. Marius stood before it for several moments feeling lost and alone. It felt impossible to imagine himself knocking on that old door, so familiar yet so alien after his years away, and announcing himself as a guest. He felt at once torn between two times and trapped between them in neither, too late to be a stranger but –

“Oh for – “ Grantaire muttered, then pounded his fist indecorously on the door.

A wave of relief and gratitude swept over Marius, along with a resolution never to let Grantaire know. The feeling lasted until the door began to open and revealed –

Someone Marius didn’t know.

“Hullo there! It’s Marius Pontmercy!” said the stranger, in entirely too familiar a tone. “I’ll be damned! The prodigal grandson returns at last.”

“…hello?” said Marius helplessly.

The man Marius didn’t know thwacked his shoulder jovially, hard enough to sting. He was dressed like a lancer, with a thin moustache and a handsome face. Marius instantly disliked him. “Here to shake the old man down I suppose? I wish you better luck with him than I’ve had. Buy me a drink if he coughs up for you, eh?”

“Hello?” Marius attempted again. As a conversational gambit, it had the advantage of not needing a name or identity to advance the conversation.

Fortunately, the man turned his attention to Marius’ companions. He eyed them both appreciatively.

“Who are your friends?” He flashed an entirely too charming smile. “We haven’t been introduced.”

Whoever the man was, Marius decided, he certainly wasn’t a venerable and aged relative, so it should be alright to lie to him. Besides, Marius wanted to make him go away.

“This,” he said dramatically, gesturing towards Bahorel and Grantaire, “is the man I love. We’re going to be married, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop us.”

The man didn’t have the grace to look shocked and appalled. Instead he looked positively intrigued. “Well well well!” he declared. “Which one?”

Marius was beginning to suspect this man was another relation of his grandfather’s. He asked the same difficult and penetrating questions. “Er, that is, I haven’t quite –”

This time Marius didn’t even need Bahorel to save him. The strange lancer clapped his hands together in obvious delight and then planted them firmly – and uncomfortably – on Marius’ shoulders.

“Marius, I have misjudged you,” he said gravely. “For all these, years, I thought you were an old stick-in-the-mug. A priggish chap with no mind for games or love affairs, wed to his books and too churlish for good company. Offensive in your politics, perhaps, but so is every second man on the street these days.”

Marius felt he ought to object at this juncture, but the lancer steamed on ahead without giving him a chance.

“But here you are, engaged in an affair of the Greek variety, courting scandal and two men at once, setting friend against friend in a battle of the heart. Why, I dare say you have become quite disreputable!” He flicked away an imaginary tear of pride. “Tell me – do you go to the theater?”

“Daily!” said Bahorel proudly.

“When I can’t help it, which is often,” said Grantaire.

“Excellent!” said the lancer. “Be sure to tell the old man. He’s been polishing up a lecture on the perfidious ways of theatrical types. You don’t want to miss it.” After a moment’s consideration he pulled a ticket stub out of his coat pocket and artfully dropped it into one of Marius’ pockets, with the tip just peeking out.

He clapped Marius heartily on the back before making as if to go. As if thinking of one last thing he leaned in close and said in a stage whisper loud enough for anyone present to hear, “Oh, and Marius? Let me know which of them you decide to jilt.” He winked at Grantaire and Bahorel then sauntered out the door.

To Marius’ horror, Bahorel winked back. Grantaire positively _leered_.

(It had taken Marius a matter of months to learn to distinguish Granatire’s leers from his usual expression, but sadly he was quite sure he’d gotten the hang of it.)

Eager to put the entire episode behind him as fast as possible, Marius dragged the two of them up the staircase to lie to his aged grandfather.

 

* * *

 

Bahorel’s pamphlets turned out to be both many and illustrated. Even Grantaire was impressed.


	3. Make Haste Slowly

Reflecting on the encounter later at home, Marius began to fear he’d become a victim of his own success. The scheme to horrify his grandfather had worked all too well; the old man would never speak to him again after the speech Bahorel had given, or what Grantaire had done to that lamp. Thus he would never get his grandfather’s permission to marry Cosette, she would believe him faithless and leave him for another, and he was back to dying alone and desolate in a ditch.

Fortunately, he was not left to these dire reflections for long. He received another letter from Monsieur Gillernormand, which alternated between angry chastisement, pleas for him to recall his good sense, however little of same there might be, and something that might have been genuine grandfatherly concern. There was also a brief note in the envelope signed with a “T” and wrapped around three tickets to _Marion Delorme_. Marius passed two of these on to Bahorel and Grantaire as the note instructed, as well as the third presumably meant for him.

“What do you think?” he asked the two of them over coffee at Café Voltaire, presenting his grandfather’s letter for inspection.

“I think your cousin has commendable taste in theater,” said Bahorel. "Not quite seditious, but close enough that there's promise for him yet.

Marius hadn’t known he had a cousin, but had no intention of acknowledging such. “ _No_ , I mean about the letter. Do you think it’s time for me to come clean about Co- my love?”

Grantaire picked up the letter and wrinkled his nose at it. “This epistle strikes a familiar chord; I used to get the like back when my father still insisted something could be made of me – albeit only with great effort, and perhaps an act of God. Your grandfather still think you can be saved from your wretched choices. Give him a little longer to begin to doubt.”

“I bow to your expertise, my friend,” said Bahorel, whom Marius had only ever heard speak warmly of his own large family. “But I think your advice is good. Give the plan time to unfold without rushing it.”

“Be like unto Augustus,” said Grantaire, who was in a declaiming mood that afternoon. “σπεῦδε βραδέως.”

“Well, I suppose,” said Marius doubtfully. “If you think so.” These were words he was unused to saying to either Grantaire or Bahorel, but he had to admit the force of their case. If he introduced the topic of Cosette now, his grandfather might just see her as another bad influence among many. He had to be brought to see how deeply undesirable Bahorel and Grantaire were as connections for the family before he could properly feel the relief of their absence.

To that end, Marius endeavored to convince the two of them to come with him to answer his grandfather’s most recent summons. It was easier than he anticipated.

“Of course!” said Bahorel instantly. “Why, last time it took him a full ten minutes to throw us out; I had counted on being able to accomplish it in five. I fear I am losing my edge and would welcome the practice.”

Grantaire was persuaded as soon as Marius offered to pay for his coffee. “I’ve nothing better to do with my time,” he said gruffly, pocketing his theater ticker.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire and Bahorel both greeted the man Marius supposed might be his cousin more warmly than a single meeting of only a few moments should have warranted. For that matter, Marius couldn’t conceive why he should be at the Gillenormand residence at all, unless he was looking to run into the three of them. Grantaire quickly fell into conversation with the man about the play he had sent them tickets to, and Marius and Bahorel were forced to go on ahead – that or stay and play third wheel to a conversation Marius at least had no interest or ability to join in, a fate worse than death. Fortunately, Bahorel was more than able to hold his own with Gillenormand without assistance.

“–so you see, that’s what makes peasants so much cleverer than the bourgeois,” Bahorel said a few minutes later in the drawing room, gesticulating lazily as he concluded his speech.

Gillenormand, turning a strange shade of purple, was saved the need to answer by Grantaire arriving at last, bursting into the room with an energy that almost immediately evaporated as he took in the room.

“Ho there! Unhand my, whatsit, my love.” Grantaire headed towards an empty armchair and examined the footstool. He carefully wiped the soles of his boots on the cushion.

“Ho there yourself, villain,” said Bahorel, unperturbed. “Marius doesn’t want to see you. We are very deeply in love, and go to the theater together every night. Of course,” he said in an aside to Gillenormand, “we only see plays by true innovators. Out with the old and down with tradition, that’s what I always say.”

“Ha! Everyone knows I’m the one Marius really loves,” returned Grantaire. If his delivery was somewhat wooden, that detail was lost on Gillenormand. “He’s only with you because you’re so respectable.”

Gillenormand made a strangled choking sound.

“At least I haven’t been arrested in the past week,” lied Bahroel. “Marius loves me passionately, and often. Give up and let us be together in peace!”

“Never!” Grantaire seized hold of Marius’ face – none too gently – and the two of them looked skeptically at each other for a moment. Grantaire gave a tiny shrug as if to say _here we are, nothing else for it_ , then he grabbed Marius’ cravat and pulled him forward for a passionate kiss.

Grantaire smelled like a hangover felt, and his stubble itched horribly against Marius’ face. Marius rolled his eyes across the room at Bahorel, who was giving them an enthusiastic thumbs-up behind his grandfather’s back.

Gillenormand looked like he might collapse from sheer outrage any moment. “Out! Out, all of you!”

“Quite right!” added Bahorel cheerfully. He pushed up his sleeves. “Let go outside and settle this like men.”

Grantaire released Marius at last, leaving him gasping for air and rubbing the stubble-marks on his face. “An excellent plan. I am greatly in favor of violence, especially when it is illegal or against authority.”

Bahorel managed to whisper “Five minutes,” to Marius and wink as he and Grantaire sauntered out the door, arm in arm, looking not a bit like rivals off to a brawl.

There was a profound and deeply uncomfortable silence left in the room after them.

“Well,” said Marius, since his grandfather seemed to be struck dumb. “Um. I hope you are well?”

Gillenormand’s mouth moved without any sounds coming out.

“Ah, yes, quite, of course,” said Marius. “My best wishes and respects to you and to my aunt, naturally. I am sorry that –” he began, and then stopped, because although he was sorry about a great many things, he wasn’t quite sure how to articulate any of them.

The expression on Gillenormand’s face began to soften slightly, and Marius decided to beat a hasty retreat before his grandfather recollected himself enough to start asking specific questions.

“Ishouldgoafterthem,” he said hastily, tripping over his own words. “Goodbye! I’ll return soon – if you wish it, that is. Er. Down with Charles X!” This last came out incongruously as he desperately searched for an exit strategy, despite the fact that Charles hadn’t been king for nearly a year. He ran out the door, managing to hold onto both his hat and his balance despite a close call at losing both.


	4. Love's Labours Won

“The trouble with starting a thing,” said Marius solemnly, “is that at some point you have to finish it.”

Cosette nodded, beautiful blue eyes bright and fixed on Marius. He’d poured out the whole story to her, not wanting to keep from her anything touching so nearly on her own concerns. Well, in truth he’d _wanted_ to keep it from her, but that hadn’t seemed fair.

Cosette hadn’t been angry with him; she’d been a perfect audience, clutching his hand as he’d described his encounters with his grandfather and laughing at Bahorel and Grantaire’s antics. He’d even told her about kissing Grantaire, wincing all the while – but she’d laughed the hardest at that.

“I should like to meet your grandfather,” she told him. “I won’t let anyone keep us apart, and I will tell him so myself if I must. I should like to meet your friends too – they sound quite exciting.” Her soft, quiet voice contrasted with the mischievous sparkle in her eye.

Cosette was the dearest girl in the world, and the most beautiful, and he told her so. They spent the next several minutes in the most delightful manner, holding each other’s hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, and murmuring endearments. Here in the Cosette’s garden everything felt possible, and the outside world seemed a mere fiction Marius had invented to make this perfect paradise appear all the sweeter by comparison.

But the thing was, having told Cosette the whole story, there was something else he had to tell her as well. When you started a thing you had to finish it, even if not quite the way you had planned.

“Cosette, my darling, my love, I know it’s improper of me to speak to you of such things before I’ve told my own grandfather, or spoken to your own father, but – I don’t think I can go another day without asking, especially now that you know what’s in my heart. My dearest, my own, will you have me, poor and wretched as I am? Cosette, will you marry me?”

Cosette gasped in delight and threw herself across the garden bench into Marius’ arms. “Oh Marius, my own sweet love, of course I will marry you, as soon as ever we are able! The very hour, the very second! I thought you would never ask!”

After that, even the outside world and all its woes didn’t seem so fearsome any more.

 

* * *

 

“Grandfather, I am going to be married.”

Gillenormand sighed wearily. “Yes, so you have told me, though I haven’t the slightest idea how you plan to contrive it – like some old Roman I suppose –”

 “No,” said Marius firmly, cutting him off. “I am in love with a girl named Cosette; she is good and honest and kind, and I couldn’t love her more if she had all the wealth in the world.”

Gillenormand blinked. “A – girl?”

“Named Cosette,” confirmed Marius.

“I don’t suppose,” said Gillenormand cautiously, “she’s an actress?”

“No.”

“A pamphleteer?”

“Never.”

“Is she political at all?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Gillenormand considered all this, with the air of a man facing the hangman's noose who has just been offered a reprieve and doesn’t know whether to trust it. “Honest, you say?”

“As honest as woman ever was, and more so!” said Marius passionately. “She is my only love, and I am hers!”

Marius observed a thousand questions flit through his grandfather’s face – Was the girl wealthy? Who was her father? What of the two scoundrels who’d been haunting his drawing rooms for the past few weeks? – and then they passed, and he threw his arms around his grandson as though they had never been estranged.

“Ah, my own grandson! Marius! Let us have the wedding as soon as can be, and your old grandfather will be there to see it done.”

Marius saw to his astonishment that his grandfather was crying. Even stranger, he found that he himself was as well.

The old wounds weren’t gone, he could feel their pain as sharply as he had an hour before – but not so sharply as a year before, nor the year before that. It wasn’t a healing, and perhaps it never would be – but it was the end of something, and the start of something else. So it goes.

Wiping a tear aside, he said, “We’re going to have to discuss my wedding party…”

**Author's Note:**

> And they all live happily and canon-divergently ever after, and everyone is at their wedding because nobody dies.


End file.
